


Earthward Bound

by excentrykemuse



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: M/M, Secret Identity, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-12
Updated: 2018-09-12
Packaged: 2019-07-11 11:51:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15971750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/excentrykemuse/pseuds/excentrykemuse
Summary: Spock was did not escape the black hole when the Nerada was destroyed.  Instead, he fell into time ... and his path eventually led him to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry ... and to one Harry Potter.Takes Place HP6 and is primarily Star Trek (2009) compliant.





	Earthward Bound

**Author's Note:**

> This may be one of my favorite fics I have ever written. I remember being in my grandparents' back room, on a horrible pull out couch, lounging in bed and just being a part of Spock's world. Please know how dear this is to me. -cen

“You must be part elven.” Blue eyes twinkled at him and Spock looked dispassionately back. Albus Dumbledore was quite unusual for a human, even for a wizard, with his half moon spectacles and flamboyant robes. He seemed to know too much as well.

Spock only hoped he wouldn’t be able to divine the existence of Vulcan, the starship Enterprise, or his fateful descent into the time vortex on the Nerada that had landed him on earth in the late twentieth century. 

Dumbledore was, of course, referring to Spock’s pointed ears. It was a common misconception among wizards. Spock did nothing to disillusion them.

“As I was saying, Professor Dumbledore, I have lived for twenty years in the Muggle world as a Muggle and I believe that I have grasped the usage of their emotions and the breadth of their culture in that timeframe. I also have two degrees in history from Cambridge—“

“Yes, I can see that, my boy.” Dumbledore wasn’t looking at the carefully typed resume but was instead twinkling at him. “Do you not think that a Muggleborn would not be better suited for the position?”

“It is my opinion, professor, that a Muggleborn witch or wizard is too out-of-date with Muggle culture. He or she must leave the Muggle world at age eleven, and he or she does not reenter it upon completion of their magical degree. They do not experience it as an adult, unlike myself. They do not study Muggle history, Muggle literature, as I have—sir.”

Dumbledore was now looking down at the resume. “Yes, I can see that. Did you bring sample syllabi—?” He was cut off when Spock handed him a folder and a textbook. “Ah yes. Thank you, my boy.”

Spock, if he were a full-blooded human, would have twitched. Although he never professed to hating anything, he strongly disliked the term ‘my boy.’ However, if he gained employment at this particular establishment, then he would have to become accustomed to it.

“How human are you?” Dumbledore asked lightly.

“I do not see how that is relevant—“

“Humor an old man.” Dumbledore was now looking at him, a page of the proposed syllabi in each hand. His gaze showed that he was not a man to be trifled with.

“My mother was human,” Spock conceded.

“Excellent.” He went back to perusing over the syllabi. “This is quite ambitious. English Literature before 1500 is not needed for the N.E.W.T.s.”

Spock inclined his head. “Perhaps not, but I thought that my students should be well versed in both Beowulf and Chaucer. I will not have them go into the Muggle world unprepared.”

“I doubt the average Muggle knows Beowulf.”

“I beg to differ. It is rudimentary for A-levels.”

Blue eyes locked on expressive brown and Dumbledore finally conceded. “Well, Mr. Spock. You are officially our new Muggle Studies professor. I’ll put your new book on the curriculum list that goes out later this month.”

“Thank you, professor. When may I begin to inhabit my quarters here at the school?”

“Monday,” Dumbledore said congenially. “I can show them to you now, if you would like.”

“I would be most grateful.”

Spock’s quarters were spacious. He had few possessions. A carton full of books he had acquired, four pairs of black trousers and four black turtlenecks. Two pairs of black shoes. Six pairs of black socks. Two pairs of sleeping clothes. He also had two sets of blue robes that reminded him of his old uniform that was carefully tucked away where no one could see it. The robes were rather fashionable. They were high collared and sleeveless, falling down to the knees. The black, too, marked him as a pureblood. As he clearly was not one most people assumed his mother had been one herself.

He kept his hair carefully cut in the Vulcan style. Just because he could not reach Vulcan, did not mean that he had forgotten her. He also possessed a high powered telescope that he used to gaze upon his long lost home. Vulcans had already achieved warp drive and were flying about the skies.

Spock would never fly again.

When he had first discovered the magical world, quite by accident, he had purchased a broom but had found that it would not work for him. He later discovered it was because he was not a magical being of any sort. When anyone asked him now why he didn’t fly, he claimed he didn’t like it. As a half-human/half-elf, he should be able to fly.

That didn’t stop him from dreaming, as unusual as that was for a Vulcan. Spock conceded that it was an aspect of his human half.

Soon the halls were full of students and Spock gained a reputation for being accurate, precise, ruthless, and exotically handsome. He found it strange that no matter how he found himself on earth, he garnered romantic interest. He had to rebuff several offers from students in his first week of classes alone to the point where Professor Dumbledore called him back into his office.

“Professor Spock, my boy, how are you settling in?” He offered Spock a lemon drop.

Spock declined. His palette was much too sensitive for earth sweets, which were brash and unrefined. “I find everything is quite adequate.”

Dumbledore looked like he was expecting more, but Spock didn’t elaborate on his position. Sighing, Dumbledore leaned back. “Well, my boy, it’s come to my attention that you have made quite a stir in your classes.”

“Yes,” Spock agreed. “Some of the students were a bit—disquieted—when they realized how much work I intended for them to complete before winter holidays. I can assure you, however, that I put their minds to rest as best I could.”

“Yes, yes, of course. But that wasn’t what I meant.”

The two men looked at each other.

Dumbledore sighed again. “I understand that you are quite popular with the ladies.”

Spock steepled his hands. “If I were entirely honest, I would say that I am also somewhat popular with the young wizards in my care.”

“Hm. Quite.” Dumbledore ate a lemon drop. “Are you aware of Hogwarts policy?”

“Indeed. I may only romantically associate with a student sixteen years of age or older who is not under my care as pupil.” It had not been the same with Nyota, of course. She had been his student at the time when he began to associate with her, first on what were known as “dates” and then in more intimate activities although he had never made himself impure, much to her displeasure. Unlike earth, Vulcan still prided itself on conjugal relations only when bonded. Spock wasn’t entirely sure how he felt about it anymore, now that he would no longer go to New Vulcan or see any of his people ever again.

“Quite.” Dumbledore looked unhappy. “There hasn’t been a student/teacher affair here in more than a century.”

“I see,” was all Spock said.

The two men stared at each other again for several long minutes.

“If anything were to develop,” Dumbledore finally said, his eyes no longer twinkling, “I would trust that you would inform me. I know that it is not strictly necessary, but as a favor.”

Spock inclined his head. It was not a promise. Never that. Spock would not allow himself to close off any avenues for companionship.

That was all Nyota had ever been for him: sweet companionship. He knew, objectively, that as a human she needed more, and he sought to provide her with what she required up to a point. If Spock had to characterize it, he would have called it a romantic friendship. 

He had known he would never bond with or marry Nyota. Spock had seen his father’s fierce protectiveness for his mother and her happiness as well as her devoted love in return. Nothing less would satisfy him.

Of course, he had yet to find it. He’d had brief romantic associations over the last decade, most notably at Cambridge, but his unwillingness to copulate with his partner had always ended the relationship rather abruptly. In this he found humans oddly perplexing. He wondered, absently, if it were the same way with wizards as it had been with Muggles.

Spock went about his duties. He taught his classes in his stern, cold voice, and answered silly questions such as “Why don’t you need a wand?” with the calm confidence he had learned when facing down bullies on Vulcan. 

He was polite but not on friendly terms with the other professors. He sat next to a Professor Sinistra during meals and they would often discuss constellations and current stellar activity. One day she remarked on his lack of an accent entirely.

“I speak as my father’s people speak,” he answered truthfully.

One student, who was particularly above average, was a Miss Hermione Granger. She had initially dropped the class long before her O.W.L.s, but after his reputation spread through the school, she received special permission from her head of house to join the class two weeks into term. Apparently she had kept up with the curriculum.

“Professor Spock,” she said from her seat, one day after lessons, “may I ask a question?”

“I believe you just did, Miss Granger,” Spock replied as he erased the chalkboard. “However, you may ask another.” 

“Your name—it isn’t very elven.”

Spock paused. “While not common, it is not unknown to my father’s race. His people are not yet known to humankind.”

“I see.” Clearly, she did not.

This was not the only time when Miss Granger sought him out. “Professor, I’ve been thinking of getting a Muggle degree before going and working for the Ministry after Hogwarts.”

“An admirable decision,” he concurred.

“Would you write me a letter of recommendation?”

Spock turned to her. Miss Granger’s hair was up in a lose bun and she was twirling her quill nervously. “As you are not a seventh year and I have known you for hardly a month, it would be rather premature.”

Still, once a week she would find him.

He was rather disturbed that once Quidditch season started, she attended the Gryffindor practices. He had started to attend the practices of all four houses because he enjoyed watching wizards fly. It was the closest he could get to the stars apart from his telescope.

“Professor,” Miss Granger greeted.

He inclined his head and settled several seats away from her.

She was silent for several minutes, scribbling something down between cheering for people named ‘Ginny,’ ‘Ron,’ and ‘Harry.’ “Do you play Quidditch?”

“My people do not play Quidditch,” he answered, never taking his eyes off the pitch. He was looking for the golden snitch. Despite his superior eyesight, he still had difficulty finding the small winged ball.

“Ah,” she said. “Why do you watch it then?”

Spock closed his eyes in pain, remembering the hum of a spaceship beneath his feet. “That is none of your concern.”

That fortunately silenced her.

Still, Spock would see her during every practice and would notice that she would sometimes watch him. He was not at all surprised when one day after class he heard the lock click shut on the classroom door.

He turned to see Miss Granger.

“This is rather bold, even for you,” he commented, as he stepped around her and unlocked the door. Holding it open for her, he looked at Miss Granger pointedly. “I am certain you have companions waiting for you.”

“But professor—“

“A witch as intelligent as yourself must know that even if I were inclined, I could not act upon such leanings,” he stated plainly. “Please leave and desist from your pursuit of me.”

They did not speak outside of class after that.

Miss Granger always left the pitch immediately after practice along with the other spectators, but Spock would always linger. The players would swoop down, landing gracefully (or not), and head off for the changing rooms. However, there was always one wizard on the Gryffindor team who remained airborne, circling. During the second practice, Spock noticed it was the Seeker.

One November evening, the Seeker flew over to him and landed just in front of him. Spock took him in. He was a tall boy with messy black hair, bottle green eyes, and a lightning bolt scar on his forehead. He was all lithe muscles and tan skin. Although Spock had never spoken to him, he knew this was the famed Boy Who Lived, Harry Potter. “Greetings,” he said.

Mr. Potter looked taken aback. “Hello,” he finally offered. “You always seem so lonely, sitting here after practice, Professor—“

“Spock,” he supplied. “I could say the same of you, Mr. Potter. Why do you fly in a solitary manner?”

Mr. Potter sat down, holding his broom loosely. “It helps me think,” he admitted. “Why do you watch?”

“Elves do not fly.” At least Spock hoped not.

Nodding, Mr. Potter looked him over. “Would you like to? I know you’re half-elf according to rumor, but you’re welcome to borrow my Firebolt.”

“Brooms do not respond to me,” Spock conceded.

Mr. Potter looked startled. “That’s strange,” he mused. “Perhaps I could give you a ride?”

Spock looked at him incredulously. “I am certain you have better ways to spend your Tuesday evenings than to chauffeur professors you have just met.”

“True, I could be doing Potions homework, but it will keep.” He stood up. “Come on, Professor. Trust me, you’ll love it.”

Spock stood up hesitantly. “If you are certain, Mr. Potter.”

Mr. Potter gave him a lopsided grin.

Then Spock was flying, for the first time in decades. His arms were around the waist of a student, but he didn’t care. He looked up at the sky and saw the stars shining above them and thought that one day, perhaps when he was old and gray, someone would be looking back at him.

It was not long after their flight that the two of them lay in the grass, staring up at the sky. “Are you fond of astronomy?” Spock inquired.

“No,” Mr. Potter breathed out. “I find this oddly peaceful, though, after flying.”

“When I was a boy,” Spock offered, “I would often sit in my parents’ observatory and watch the sky when I quarreled with other children. They thought my eyes were too human.”

Potter looked over at him and Spock looked back.

“That’s weird. Your eyes seem strange and inhuman to me.”

If Spock were not Vulcan, he would have laughed. “Tell me of yourself, Mr. Potter.”

“Well,” Potter breathed out. “There’s not much to know. My parents were killed by Voldemort—“ He looked over at Spock, probably expecting the usual flinch at the name. Spock’s face, however, remained impassive.

“I have read your news,” Spock commented. “I have read books written about you. I do not wish to know about the Boy Who Lived just as I hope people will not wish to know of S’chn T’gai Spock. I want to know about the student Harry Potter.”

“T’gai what?”

“My family clan,” Spock breathed out, wondering why he was being so forthright with a student when he was usually so circumspect. Perhaps it was feeling his feet lift off from the ground again.

“Are they important?”

Spock hesitated and looked back at Potter. Startling green eyes met his and they showed nothing but earnestness. These were the eyes of someone who knew how to keep a secret. “I am the equivalent of a prince. Or I was. Before I was exiled here.”

Potter looked at him piercingly before nodding. He puffed out some air. “Well, I grew up with my mum’s family. They’re Muggles.”

“That would explain why you do not take my class, then.”

“Er-right. They treated me like a servant, to be honest. No one wants to hear this sort of thing, but they kept me locked up in a cupboard when I was little. It was where I slept. I cooked all the meals and I cleaned—and all I got were cold words and hand-me-downs.”

Spock looked up at the sky. “Humans and their cruelty often astonish me,” he admitted. “Among my father’s people, such behavior would not have been tolerated.”

“Is it nice in the land of the elves?”

His lip twitched in the facsimile of a smile. “It was destroyed.”

The two just stargazed after that. Spock walked Potter back up to the castle and the two parted at the entryway. When Potter was gone, Snape emerged from the shadows. The man was a blood purist and had taken a disliking to him. Spock also noticed that his relationship with the part-goblin Professor Flitwick was frosty as well.

“I would stay away from that one, Professor.” His words were soft and caressing. “Potter brings nothing but trouble.”

Spock lifted an eyebrow. “On the contrary, I find him to be amiable company.” He inclined his head and retired to his quarters. He found it a little difficult to meditate that night and wondered at it.

Potter once again flew over to him after the next Gryffindor practice. Miss Granger had not quite left yet and she greeted Potter with a hug.

“Still doing homework, I see,” Potter teased her.

She had the decency to blush. Spock still found the red hue of human cheeks fascinating and had often delighted, when he was a small boy on Vulcan, at seeing his mother blush. The thought was bittersweet to him.

“Yes, just some Ancient Runes,” she replied happily. “You flew well. Ginny was noticing you.”

Spock looked at the two strangely. He wondered if this ‘Ginny’ was the Miss Weasley in his fifth year O.W.L. class. He had a Ginevra Weasley on his roster, and Ginny sounded like a petname a human would use. Spock had also thought he had seen her flying in the position of Chaser.

“Ginny was looking for the Quaffle.”

“Ginny was looking for the Quaffle and looking at you.”

“She’s dating Dean!”

Spock took this as his cue to leave. Before he had entirely left the pitch, however, Potter flew in front of him. Hovering above the ground, he gave Spock a genuine smile. “Sorry about that. Would you like to fly again?”

“I would not wish to be an inconvenience.”

Potter looked at him hard. “You’re not an inconvenience,” he finally said with a blush.

Spock’s eyebrows rose. It appeared that Potter would be one of his admirers. He took in the frame of the teen before him. He was, strangely, beautiful. Spock had never had a preference for either gender. As warrior bonds between Vulcan males on his planet were rare, his mind had turned to females. He had not thought to deviate from that imposed preference when he came to earth to attend the Academy.

When he had been at Cambridge, however, he had had romantic associations with two different Terran males. Neither had the relaxed and unassuming charm of Harry Potter.

“So, a ride?” Harry pressed and Spock nodded.

Miss Granger came up behind them as Spock was settling on the broom. “Oh, are you afraid of flying, Professor Spock?”

“On the contrary, I do not find it unappealing, Miss Granger,” he returned in that cold voice he knew intimidated his students. 

Miss Granger glared at Potter but in another instant they were flying in the sky.

This evening they sat perched in a tree on the edge of the Forbidden Forest, looking out on the Black Lake. “I’m sorry about Hermione,” Harry said, looking over at Spock cautiously. “She means well but she’s rather…” His voice trailed off.

“Indeed.” Spock paused. “You told me of your mother’s relations.” He practically spit out the word. “What of your father’s family? I take it he was a wizard?”

“He was Heir James Potter,” Harry elaborated. Spock knew of the pureblood tradition of titles, so he did not inquire as to an explanation. “Well, he was Lord Potter for about four months before he died. He and Mum were in hiding then, so it didn’t really matter.”

“I know you were young, but to lose both your grandparents and your parents in such a short amount of time is unfortunate.”

“Yes. It was—unfortunate.” Potter looked at him oddly. “They were apparently killed in a Death Eater raid. My father’s parents, that is.”

“I have read of these Death Eaters as well as their reappearance at the Quidditch World Cup. I understand that you were present from local news reports.”

Potter blushed again. “Yes. I was with Ron and Ginny Weasley.”

“They are what humans would call friends?”

Potter nodded.

“I believe I had a friend once.” He knew he sounded wistful for a Vulcan, but it would be undetectable to the average human. “His name was James Tiberius Kirk.”

Potter seemed to wait for more of a story, but Spock did not provide him with one. He still remembered how Kirk had goaded him into becoming emotionally compromised, but in retrospect he had only been revealing the truth. He had also saved Earth and, with Spock’s help, had hopefully saved Captain Pike. For some reason Spock had not been beamed out of the Nerada when Kirk and Pike had been, and had disappeared into time with the rest of the crew. He could not even posit a guess as to where they ended up in time and space.

“Ron was my first real friend. We met on the Hogwarts Express.” Potter was looking away now, but his hand was pushed toward Spock on the branch.

Spock stared at it for a brief moment before sliding his hand closer. Terrans were so odd with their courtship rituals. He would let Potter decide how bold he would be. Normally, he would never permit anyone to touch his hand, but he had grown slightly more relaxed in his years on Earth. It was also the side of a finger, as well. His senses would not be overloaded.

“I hope you know that Hermione was mistaken about Ginny,” Potter was now saying. He was looking away but even Spock could tell that the back of his neck was red.

“Of course.” He spoke quietly as the forest fell silent behind them. “Miss Weasley’s romantic attentions are otherwise engaged.”

“Are-are you married?” Potter was looking at him now. “It’s just, most of the teachers don’t have spouses, at least not in the castle, and I haven’t seen an elven woman walking around.”

“No, I am unbonded,” Spock answered softly. 

Hesitantly, the side of a hand pressed against his own. Spock remained unmoving, choosing to look out at Hogwarts than over at Potter. He could, however, feel Potter’s gaze on him.

Taking the direct approach, he inquired, “Are you usually this bold, Mr. Potter?”

The hand retreated. “I think we should head back to the castle.”

“How many years have you lived, Mr. Potter?” Spock inquired instead, cool dark brown eyes falling onto Potter’s form. Spock believed he already knew the answer, given the books he had read, but he wanted to see what Potter would say.

Potter blushed. “I—I’m sixteen. How old are you?”

Spock eyed him. “I am approximately fifty years of age. I am quite young for one of my father’s people.”

“O-okay.” Potter nodded to himself. He was looking down at his hands, which were now in his lap. “Am I too young for you then?”

“Negative,” Spock replied. “Are you serious in your endeavor? I am not one for idle trivialities.”

Potter looked over at him. “I—I’ve watched you. Along with all the other students, I know, but I’ve seen you at all the Quidditch practices, not just Gryffindor’s, with such longing in your eyes. I know what it’s like to want to be free from this—world. I’ve thought of you—when I’m alone.”

“I must inform you at this juncture that I will not copulate with an individual before we are bonded. It is the way of my people, and it will need to be respected.”

“I can respect that,” Potter squeaked. “I’ve never—I don’t—I mean—Okay. Just okay.”

“Then we are in agreement.”

Potter smiled at him. “Yes. Yes we are.”

Spock could privately admit to himself that he was surprised by Potter’s early declaration. He had not taken Potter to be one inclined toward potentially illicit affairs with professors. Nor had he viewed their flying together as an elaborate—if brief—seduction.

Still, in a small way it pleased him. Potter was not unpleasant company and he could perhaps provide the companionship that Spock desired. It was true that Potter was young, but his youth was also appealing. While Potter was scarred by his past, he still had a freshness to him and his outlook on life that he would no doubt lose with age.

Spock wondered if he himself had ever had such an outlook.

It was improbable given his Vulcan heritage.

The following Saturday, Spock prepared a light meal of what would pass as plomeek soup after he invited Potter to his quarters. Although professors usually relied on house elves for their nourishment, Spock had always preferred to cook for himself.

Spock had dispensed with his usual robe, but he was somewhat surprised to see that Potter had appeared in a slightly-too-big house robe over a pair of Muggle jeans. 

“I am preparing a dish of my father’s people,” Spock said in greeting as Potter shifted self-consciously under his gaze. “Please do not discomfort yourself in my presence.”

“Okay,” Potter responded. He looked about the apartment. “You don’t have any pictures.”

“No,” Spock agreed. “I do not.” He knew a human would elaborate but a stubbornness inside him would not permit him to be anything less than Vulcan, even during his exile.

“I only have a photo album of my parents. It was a gift from Hagrid.”

“The gamekeeper?”

Potter nodded.

“That must have great sentimental worth.”

“And you—have no such pictures of ‘great sentimental worth’?” Potter fumbled over the words and blushed slightly, causing Spock’s gaze to linger on him before he returned to garnishing the soup. He thought back to the holovids of his mother and how he had treasured her, but it did not do to dwell on that which could not be helped.

“I lost everything when I came to the human world,” Spock admitted as he brought out two bowls of steaming hot soup. He placed them on the table and motioned for Potter to sit. “I do not think upon it, Mr. Potter.”

“Harry.”

Spock raised one eyebrow at him. “Harry, then. You are fortunate. Spock is my given name. Thus, you need only drop the title ‘professor’ when we are alone.”

Harry gave him a wide smile. “Why were you given an elven name and not a human one?”

“An excellent question. I deduced as a child that it was because my mother deferred to my father’s culture. She lived with him in his environs, learned his language, abided by his customs, and raised me as one of his people. It was only logical that I should have a name of my father’s people.”

“Spock,” Harry tried out on his tongue. “It’s like nothing I’ve ever heard.”

“No, it would not be.”

Harry tried his plomeek soup, and Spock had to commend him, as he didn’t make a face unlike most humans. “Tell me about your mother,” Harry finally prompted.

Spock stilled for several moments. “She was very beautiful. I remember her laughing when I was a young child. Before she was bonded to my father, I have been told she had no desire to be married. You may be interested to know that she was also a teacher.”

“My mother didn’t have time to be anything,” Harry confided. “She got married right out of Hogwarts, and was soon pregnant with me. Then she and dad went on the run.”

“An unfortunate turn of events.” Spock watched the way Harry’s wrist moved as he spooned more soup. “She must have been a very brave woman.”

“I like to think so. She was in Gryffindor, as well.”

“And your father?”

“He was in Gryffindor, too.” Harry smiled, which strangely warmed Spock. His eyes lit up and, although they did not twinkle, shone brightly behind his glasses. 

“You come by your placement there honestly then.”

“Your mother, was she a witch?”

“She was a Muggle.” Most just assumed that she was a witch, given the fact that she supposedly married an elf, but Spock did not mind sharing such information. He was not ashamed of his mother. He never had been and he never would be.

Harry looked at him strangely. “How did she meet your father?”

Spock paused. “My father was sent to learn of humans and in that capacity met my mother. He did not tell me until after her death, but he loved her very much. It is not a sentiment often if ever expressed by my father’s people.”

Looking into his soup, Harry nodded. “Am I—I’m sorry, professor, but am I just a game to you?” His green eyes were now searching out Spock’s and Spock looked earnestly back.

“I am a child of two cultures,” he answered, hoping it would be sufficient. By the sudden relaxation of Harry’s shoulders, it clearly was.

The next time Spock saw Harry was at the Gryffindor-Ravenclaw game. Spock was in the professors’ bleachers, sitting next to Flitwick who was avidly cheering for his House. Spock observed the gaiety around him. Humans continued to astonish him. While he did not partake in the frivolities or the ruckus that abounded around him, he did watch Potter—Harry—avidly and was not displeased when Harry caught the Snitch and won the game.

“I congratulate you on your athletic endeavor,” Spock said to him in the hall the next day. A few female students stopped and looked, most likely because Spock rarely spoke outside of classes, but also perhaps Harry was ‘The Chosen One.’ “It was a marvelous, I believe the word is “catch.””

Harry’s face brightened. “Thank you, professor.” 

Granger and a red-haired wizard were standing with him but Harry didn’t seem to mind having a brief conversation with Spock.

“Did you like Quidditch, now that you’ve seen us in action?”

“I have seen it many times before, Mr. Potter. Although I may not appear it at first glance, I am a Quidditch enthusiast.”

Harry looked a little lost at to what to say to that.

In an endeavor to aid his romantic companion, Spock continued, “Do you, perhaps, follow a particular team?”

Looking at him gratefully, Harry shrugged. “Not really.”

“I myself have frequented games for the Pride of Portree. I think you may enjoy it as you take such pleasure from playing the game yourself.” Spock’s eyes glittered in amusement and held Harry’s gaze for a long moment.

“We saw the Quidditch World Cup,” the boy with red hair piped in. “Er, professor.”

Spock glanced at him. Spock thought he had seen him playing in the game the day before. He was unappealing physically though he could prove intelligent. He was, after all, friends with Miss Granger.

“I was there myself, Mr.—“

“Weasley.”

“Mr. Weasley.”

“As I was saying, I was fortunate enough to gain admittance to that particular sporting event. I must confess that the placement of my seat was not ideal, but I did have binoculars.”

Harry looked as if he were about to say something, but Miss Granger spoke before he could.

“We were in the top box with the Minister of Magic. I found the game rather boring, though.”

Spock looked over at her. “I find that surprising, Miss Granger, as I have not seen you miss one of Mr. Potter’s practices.”

“Ron—Weasley—suggested she take more of an interest,” Harry added, blushing.

Spock could only look at Mr. Weasley. “As I said, Mr. Potter, it was a fine feat of physical prowess. I look forward to your matches in the future although, you must understand, I remain impartial as I am not affiliated with any of the four Houses.”

“So you didn’t attend Hogwarts?” Miss Granger asked a little desperately.

Looking at her, Spock raised an eyebrow and turned to leave.

It was about this time that Spock noticed that a particular student was beginning to frequent the seventh floor corridor. His own classroom was tucked away out of sight, but that did not mean that he was completely unaware of what happened on the rest of the hall.

He had noticed that there was a particular stretch of wall that couples tended to go for time alone, although he could not fathom why and thought that perhaps magic was involved. This student, however, was acting in a singular capacity. He was also unusually pale with platinum-blond hair and the most disturbing shade of gray for eyes.

After making discreet inquiries, Spock learned that the student was Draco Malfoy, the son of none other than convicted Death Eater Lucius Malfoy. He filed away the information for when it would be useful.

The door clicked behind him as Spock was manually erasing the board. He knew that if he had a wand he could accomplish the task with a flick of it, but he was unfortunately non-magical. He paused. Then there was the sound of fabric against fabric.

It was after his sixth year class and Spock turned to see none other than Hermione Granger looking at him, her tie in her hand and the top button of her shirt undone.

Spock raised an eyebrow at her. “Miss Granger, I believe we already had this conversation.”

“Then why did you single me out when you spoke about Quidditch in the hall just last week?” she asked, biting her lower lip. It made her look younger than she already was.

“You are mistaken. I was speaking to Mr. Potter.”

“But you don’t know Harry—“

“On the contrary. We fly together, Miss Granger. I thought you were aware of this fact. You have been present for the beginning of one of our excursions.”

She was looking at him angrily. “Professor Spock—“

“Miss Granger, please redress and know that I will be reporting your persistent behavior to the Headmaster.”

Squeaking, she looked up at him with her large brown eyes. “Please don’t do that, Professor. I know that students and professors can—“

“I would not finish that thought if I were you, Miss Granger.” He looked at her. “Now fasten your shirt and replace your tie. I think it would be best if you left. I have important classwork to complete.”

Tears welled up in her eyes and she nodded. With shaking fingers she found the button and then she was threading her gold and red tie through her shirt. Spock went and sat down at his desk in the adjoining room where he took a stack of parchment that had been handed in to it and started organizing it alphabetically. With a click of the door, Miss Granger was gone. Spock sighed in relief.

It was perhaps hypocritical of him given his relationship with Harry Potter, but Spock made an appointment with the Headmaster for the next day. He returned to his quarters, exhausted, and was surprised to see Harry waiting for him. There was a trick on how to press the bricks a certain way to enter and Spock had taught Harry. He had always reasoned that if their relationship were to change, he could have the “password” reset.

“Hermione told me about today,” Harry said, coming up to him and taking the parchments from his hands. “Please don’t tell Professor Dumbledore.”

“She has been unusually persistent, perhaps to the detriment of her studies. He needs to be made aware, Harry.” Spock carefully clasped the sides of Harry’s arms and looked into his eyes. “I know that she is more than a mere acquaintance to you.”

Harry laughed. “She’s one of my best friends.”

“I will not insult your intelligence by inquiring as to whether you have told her of our association. While not forbidden, I value my privacy.”

Deflating, Harry looked at him. “I’ve noticed.—You’ve never kissed me, Spock.”

Spock looked at him, astonished. “Was I misinformed that humans of your age do not require more wooing?”

“We can. But we’ve had so many flights and you’ve made me soup and we’re here having our first fight.”

Spock immediately thought back to the arguments he’d had with humans, mainly about his refusal to engage in sexual intercourse, and this was nothing like that. “This may be a disagreement, but I would not qualify it as an argument, Harry.”

“Kiss me, anyway.” Then Harry leaned up and their lips were pressed together. Spock brought his arms around Harry and held him there until the kiss deepened and Harry was sighing against him and then gently pulling away. Harry was smiling up at him. “Do elves kiss?”

“My father’s people do not engage in such an activity.”

Harry brought his hand up to Spock’s cheek. “Your father’s people seem very different from humans.”

“They are.”

“I know it must be different for you, but I was raised by Muggles and then entered the wizarding world when I was eleven. It was my eleventh birthday, actually. It was so strange and different and new so, perhaps, I know a little of what you went through.”

Spock’s lips twitched up. “Perhaps.” He leaned forward for another kiss and only let Harry go when it was time for dinner and Harry didn’t want to be noticed as ‘missing.’ Spock spent his evening repast in his own room.

The two of them had never resolved the question of Miss Granger, so Spock went to the Headmaster’s office the next day before lunch. Dumbledore was dressed flamboyantly, as usual, and Spock took a seat across from him.

“How may I help you, my boy?” Dumbledore asked indulgently.

Spock steepled his fingers. “I have a student. She’s very intelligent, however she has now twice made sexual advances toward me. I have told her that she was behaving inappropriately, and even informed her that I would report such an incident to you. However, it is my belief that she will remain vigilant.”

Dumbledore’s visage turned grave. “And who may this young lady be?”

“Miss Hermione Granger.”

Dumbledore looked visibly surprised. After a moment, he said, “What makes you think that she will be persistent?”

“It is my experience that if there is a second advance, there is a 73.2% chance of a third. The fact that I am reporting the behavior to an authority figure, of course, diminishes the chance. However, I thought it was prudent—“

Holding up his hand, Dumbledore stopped him. He opened up a drawer in his desk and took out a stack of schedules. “Hmm.” He turned to a portrait behind him. It was of a man wearing a pointed hat. “I need a student.”

Five minutes later a winded third year presented himself. He was from one of Spock’s Muggle Studies classes.

Within fifteen minutes Miss Granger was standing before Dumbledore’s desk, blushing. “Headmaster, Professor Spock.”

“Miss Granger, Professor Spock has reported some unsolicited behavior on your part which, I know you know, goes against the School Charter.”

Her cheeks stained pink and she looked anywhere but at Spock. “I thought, if I kept my marks up—“

“It is still quite out of the question, Miss Granger.”

She shook her head, making her bushy brown hair sway from side to side. “Then I’ll quit Muggle Studies.”

“Miss Granger,” Spock said, even though she refused to look at him. “I am not romantically interested in you. I do not believe I will be in the future.”

“But there is still a chance—“

Spock shook his head. “If there is one, it is negligible.”

Her pupils blew wide and she turned to Headmaster Dumbledore. “I—“

Dumbledore put up his hands. “I always saw you as a young woman of reason, Miss Granger. Perhaps you should turn your attentions to someone more reasonable for a young lady your age. Young Harry or Ron perhaps?”

Fortunately Spock had always had excellent control of his facial reactions, no matter what other Vulcans had said when he was a child. The thought of Harry being romantically linked to this witch was disquieting. He did not much care for Ron Weasley so it was of no consequence.

“Or perhaps some other boy or girl?” Spock suggested. 

Miss Granger’s eyebrows rose and Dumbledore looked at him quizzically.

“Yes, quite,” Hermione said.

“I think it would be for the best if you were to drop Muggle Studies, especially as you have once already and it was only Professor Spock’s reputation that drew you back to the class. There will be no mark against your record, I can assure you, Miss Granger,” Dumbledore added.

She sighed. “If there’s nothing else?”

“No, nothing, my girl,” Dumbledore said sagely. She made to leave and Spock stood.

“I will see you at lunch, Headmaster.”

“Yes, I expect you will.”

Spock was alone with Miss Granger on the spiraling staircase. “Professor,” she asked. “Why do you only wear blue robes?” She looked at him quizzically. “Is it significant to elves?”

Spock looked at her coolly. “I hope you enjoy the rest of your lesson, Miss Granger,” he said before he left her, staring after him, in the hall.

He was surprised to hear the question parodied by Harry during their flight later that week. Spock could not look into Harry’s eyes as he was holding onto his waist from behind, and he waited until they were settled on the grass of the pitch, watching the stars come out.

“Why do you wear blue robes? Do you own any other color?”

“Is it you who is asking, or Miss Granger?”

There was a pregnant pause. “I answer to you only. To her you may respond that it is of no importance.”

“But it is of some importance.”

“Several decades ago I was part of a--. No. I held a position once where my uniform was blue. This was when I was still in contact with my father’s people. I wear blue to remember the past to which I cannot return.”

Silence hung around them and, after several minutes, a hand crept into his. 

The shock was instantaneous. It was as if a thousand nerves had gone on fire and were seeping through Spock’s veins to his very mind and he quickly jerked his hand away.

“I’m sorry,” Harry murmured, turning away.

Breathing raggedly, Spock looked at the night sky. “You were not to know, Harry. Such a gesture is—intimate—among my father’s people.”

“Intimate?”

Closing his eyes, Spock breathed in deeply. “It is on rare occasions that even bonded mates engage in such activity.”

“But kissing is all right?” Harry’s voice was hesitant, but he had turned once again toward Spock.

Harry didn’t wait for Spock to answer. Instead he leaned over, pushed Spock’s face gently toward him, and kissed Spock. The kiss was soft, unwanting, just a form of comfort. Nyota had kissed him in such a way. He found that he much preferred this alternative.

Breaking apart, Harry laid a hand on Spock’s chest. “I’m sorry, Spock. I wish you could return to your father’s people.” It was curious that he did not use the term “elf.”

“It is of no consequence. While I was raised a member of their species, I was viewed with suspicion and thought to be inferior because of my mother’s heritage. I am certain that few miss me.”

Harry took several moments to digest that. “I—I know what it is like to be set apart in the world of my father. No, let me speak, Spock. It’s hard. Everyone’s watching your every move, looking for a flaw, wanting to exploit you in some way. However, the wizarding world was the world of my parents. I am a wizard although my mum was a Muggleborn. I do not—feel at home. This is not how I was brought up.”

He tucked his head under Spock’s chin and sighed. Spock carefully reached up and let his fingers run through Harry’s messy hair.

“I was shocked,” Spock confided, “when I discovered the wizarding world. Their acceptance of me was gratifying yet strange. I did not have to wear a head covering to hide my less human features.”

“I like your ‘less human features.’”

“Many wizards and witches do. However, it has become so commonplace in my life that I hardly notice it anymore.”

“Then why did you report Hermione?”

“Her sexual advances were unwarranted and undesired. I asked her to desist and she chose not to. I should perhaps warn you that Headmaster Dumbledore suggested she choose either you or Mr. Weasley as a potential romantic partner.”

Harry shot up. “I—what?”

Their gazes locked. “Indeed.”

“I—just—no. Ever since Cho last year I’ve known I’ve only fancied blokes and pretending otherwise was just—pointless.”

“Do Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger know of your preference?” Spock inquired in genuine interest. He had, perhaps in arrogance, thought it was his exotic features that had attracted Harry.

Harry shook his head. “No. Never. I just—it didn’t seem important and then I was dating this bloke over part of the summer and he was a Muggle and I couldn’t tell them about that because they’d never understand going outside of the wizarding world and then there was you—“ Harry was now hyperventilating.

“Be calm, Harry,” Spock murmured, reaching up and kissing Harry’s nose. This brought a smile to Harry’s face. “If you ever wish to divulge your preference, you know that you may come to me. It may interest you to know that in my father’s culture there were once warrior mates who were revered. However, when my father’s people turned away from their baser instincts, such couplings became obsolete.”

“So, we’re warrior mates?”

“We have a romantic affiliation with one another. We are not yet bonded,” Spock corrected.

The light in Harry’s eyes dimmed. “Right.”

Draco Malfoy was persistent in his use of the seventh floor corridor. Spock took to watching his patterns and discerned when his free periods were. Occasionally a younger witch with strawberry blonde curls would follow him and offer him a bit of food—a snack—but he would harshly rebuff her and she would leave with tears in her eyes.

Spock gained the attention of the Potions master, a Professor Slughorn. “I have never met an elf before.”

Staring at him, Spock then looked away. “I have yet to encounter a human who has.”

“Quite.” He licked his lips. “I am having a gathering of select individuals and was wondering if you might attend. All have political significance or importance given their magical power, and I think you would make a fine addition.” Harry then would be invited. 

Spock raised an eyebrow. “I am neither. I am merely an oddity.” He stood. “Professor.”

Harry would spend some of his afternoons in Spock’s quarters, pouring over essays and muttering about NEWT-level courses. Spock had picked up a text or two of Harry’s and had read it when it wasn’t being used. The acquisition of knowledge was always fascinating.

It was around Christmas that the dreams began. Vulcans did not dream and Spock had not until then. He would be standing on the plains of Vulcan in traditional garb and Harry would walk up to him in his school robes. “Is this where elves live?” he would comment.

Sometimes his mother would be there, telling him to follow Harry across the sands to the realm of men. “I followed your father for love. Follow him for the same reason.” He was filled with such longing, that he wanted to follow Harry, yet he was terrified to leave Vulcan.

Spock always woke up gasping. He would turn to the empty side of his bed and wonder what it would be like to have Harry sleep there. It was what humans would call wishful thinking. Spock had never slept with any creature before and he found that now he was somehow bereft.

Whenever Harry’s laughter would echo down the corridor or in the Great Hall, Spock could not help but to look. Harry’s countenance had become dear and Spock was wondering if he would stay here, as an elf, and not wander somewhere in five years for Harry.

The two of them were being unusually bold, walking through the hallways of Hogwarts together and, as always, discussing Quidditch as it was their one shared public passion. On one occasion, they came across Miss Weasley entangled with another student behind a tapestry.

“Ginny? Dean?” Harry squeaked, taking a step away from Spock.

“Miss Weasley and Mr.—?”

“Thomas,” the boy, Dean, put in, blushing profusely. 

“I’m afraid that as a professor I must dock points for such behavior. Forgive me, Mr. Potter, for making you a witness.”

Harry’s ears had gone pink. “I—“

“I think that will be ten points from Gryffindor. Ten points each,” Spock said sternly.

Miss Weasley’s face was now coloring. She turned to Harry. “Please don’t tell Ron.”

“I wouldn’t—“

“I know you have a secret girlfriend, so you must be snogging her somewhere private.”

Harry looked flabbergasted. Mr. Thomas was looking between the two confused. Finally, he said, “Seamus mentioned something similar.”

“Perhaps I should leave you to your peers, Mr. Potter, and we can continue our discussion on the dangers of the Wronski Feint at a later date.”

Harry reached out a hand but aborted the movement. “No, stay, professor. This will only take a moment.” He turned to his two housemates. “Whether or not I have a secret girlfriend is entirely my business,” he stated flatly.

“It’s kinda every girl in Hogwarts’ business,” Mr. Thomas put in apologetically.

Spock looked at the three teenagers. Carefully he said, “I do not believe that Mr. Potter’s fame makes his private life any less private. If he chooses to have a romantic affair away from the prying eyes of the student body and the press, then you should allow him that courtesy. He gives you this same courtesy when he agreed not to inform Mr. Weasley of your current affiliation with Mr. Thomas.”

Miss Weasley looked at him hard. “Harry, are you shagging a teacher?”

Both Harry and Mr. Thomas had gone completely red. 

However, Spock was the one to speak. “If I am the professor you are referring to, I can unilaterally say that I am not shagging Mr. Potter or any other student. Another fifty points from Gryffindor for such lack of respect.”

Miss Weasley’s mouth was now hanging open. Harry and Mr. Thomas were staring at him.

“Fifty points?”

“Do not give me cause for raising the punishment, Miss Weasley.”

She was silent after that. The four of them stood rather uncomfortably. It was then that Mr. Weasley happened upon the path and started shouting when he saw Mr. Thomas’s arm around Miss Weasley’s waist. Spock left quietly with Harry and headed to his quarters.

As soon as they were in private, Spock pushed Harry against a wall and kissed him long and slow. Harry made little gasping noises against him, which had Spock’s toes actually curling. When he finally released him, Spock straightened out his robes while Harry stood dazed against the wall. “Come, I believe you have assignments to complete.” Harry’s bag had fallen to the side of the door.

“I just—right.”

Dumbledore called him up to his office about a month later. His eyes were not twinkling, if Spock could be given to romanticism, but he was undeterred as he sat down across from his Headmaster.

A lemon drop was offered to him.

“No, thank you, Headmaster.”

“I cannot tempt you, my boy?”

“My palette—“

“Yes, of course, your elven heritage. Tell me, Professor Spock, exactly how old you are.”

Spock was a little surprised by the question. “I estimate that I am approximately fifty years of age.” He had been twenty-nine terran years when he fell through the void with the Nerada. Spock had arrived in 1975 and it had been just shy of twenty-two years since then. Of course, his initial age was a rough estimate based not solely on age but also on human-to-Vulcan maturity, but he had never made an exact study of his age. It had not seemed necessary.

“I asked you to inform me if you became romantically involved with any of the pupils of this school,” Dumbledore continued, now standing and looking at a portrait of a man with a turban. The turbaned-wizard was looking back sternly.

“He’s my heir,” the portrait whispered. If it were not for Vulcan advanced hearing, the comment would have gone unnoticed. Spock, however, pretended ignorance.

Dumbledore stroked his beard. “You were kind enough to inform me of how taken Miss Granger was of you.” He paused, turning toward Spock. “However, Miss Weasley has suggested that you and Mr. Potter are rather close.”

“I enjoy Mr. Potter’s company,” Spock answered, steepling his hands. “He takes me flying and we speak of Quidditch.”

“Do you believe that this relationship is entirely appropriate?”

“If he were one of my own students, I would say that it may be suspect. However, he is not, and our behavior has always been out in the open and exemplary.”

“Miss Weasley, you may know, is a member of the Gryffindor Quidditch team.”

Spock inclined his head.

“She has noticed that the two of you will lie on your backs and stargaze.”

“I believe that it aids Mr. Potter in his studies if nothing else,” Spock retorted. “The location of our conversations may be less than orthodox for humans, but they are just that—conversations.” This, of course, was a lie. They had embraced under the stars when they believed no one was watching.

Dumbledore made a noncommittal noise. “And Mr. Potter’s secret girlfriend?”

“Is a secret to me as well. He has not confided in me. I would not expect him to.”

“Perhaps he will take her to the Slug Club’s Yuletide Party later this week,” Dumbledore murmured. “One more thing, my boy.”

Spock looked at him quizzically.

“If Professor McGonagall did perhaps see Mr. Potter along the corridor where your rooms are that would surely be a coincidence.”

“I would imagine.”

Dumbledore looked at him perceptively. “I do not take it that you imagine much, my boy.”

Spock did not attend the Yuletide Party although he was invited. He knew Harry would be going, however. He felt this jealousy of the nameless witch that Harry would be taking as his date. He knew it was only to be expected. Harry was expected to appear with a date, and so he would find one. It would not be difficult.

Harry came to his quarters afterward, wearing green robes and a lopsided smile, and Spock immediately drew Harry to him. Pushing his hands past the robes, he pulled up the dress shirt from Harry’s trousers. As his hands met bare skin, Harry gasped and tingles spread through Spock’s hands. That did not deter Spock. He just kissed Harry more deeply as his hands traveled upward.

Harry, perhaps emboldened by Spock’s behavior, lifted up Spock’s black turtleneck and let his hands run up Spock’s back.

Eventually the two pulled away from each other, breathing heavily, and Harry’s eyes were glassy behind his spectacles. “Your ears are tinged green,” he panted.

“My blood is green.”

“Really?”

Spock just kissed him again and led him toward the couch. Essays were on the small coffee table in front of it, but Spock just pushed them aside, uncaring that he would have to put them back in careful order later.

They were a tangle of limbs as they inelegantly fell onto the couch, and Spock stilled as Harry settled above him. They both gazed at one another.

“Miss me?” Harry asked a little sheepishly.

Spock lifted out his hand tentatively to push away Harry’s bangs to reveal his curse scar. He traced it carefully with his thumb. 

Harry shuddered.

“Forgive me. Should I not have—?” Spock inquired.

Harry shook his head. “No, it felt good. Really good.”

Spock traced the scar again and Harry shuddered once more. “Fascinating.”

Then they were kissing each other hungrily. Spock only knew the feeling of Harry’s hands against his body, the touch of his lips, and without bidding his hand came up to Harry’s face in the familiar mind meld configuration. Without saying a word, Spock slipped into Harry’s mind and saw him with a girl with radish earrings and pale blue robes. Her dishwater blonde hair fell in strings around her face and she was talking to Harry near mistletoe.

Gasping, Spock pulled back and removed his hand. “I apologize, Harry. While it does not excuse my behavior, know that such an intrusion was unintentional.”

Harry was breathing in deeply, his eyes closed. “What was that?”

“A mind meld. In times of intimacy, it is not uncommon.”

Nodding, Harry looked at him. “If you wanted to know, why didn’t you ask?”

Spock steadied his breathing. “I did not wish to invade your privacy.”

“Well,” Harry began, taking one of Spock’s wrists in his hand and moving it to above his head. “Her name is Luna Lovegood. She’s a fifth year Ravenclaw and a friend.” He took Spock’s second wrist and moved it above his head with the first. “Warn me next time. But I want to see a memory of yours.”

Harry leaned in and teasingly kissed Spock. Spock could have removed his hands from Harry’s binding of them, but he let his romantic partner kiss him as he wished. When finally his wrists were released, Spock formed the familiar pattern against Harry’s cheek. They gazed into each other’s eyes. “My mind to your mind…”

Your thoughts to my thoughts.

They were standing in a desert and young Spock was leaning over his wounded sehlat, I-Chaya. Tears did not fall from his eyes. Instead, his human gaze fell on his beloved pet and, after a murmur of farewell and with a twist of his hand, he snapped his pet’s neck. His cousin stood by and watched.

With a deep inhalation of breath, Spock broke the memory. 

“You killed your big cat.”

“She was in pain.”

“And you lived in a desert.”

“Hotter than you will ever know.”

Harry looked at him for several long seconds before leaning down and kissing Spock gently. “Why did you do it?”

“It was logical. She would never have been able to recover and so, in human terms, I put her out of her misery.”

“That’s heartless.”

“It was done out of logic and out of love. I-Chaya was very dear to me. I believe you also have a pet.”

“I—yes. Her name is Hedwig.”

“I’ve seen her in the Great Hall. She is a very beautiful bird.”

Harry looked at him again as if considering something.

It was a week after Christmas when Harry came to his room with a Siamese cat. Spock was sitting at his desk grading essays. He used a Muggle pencil as he could not abide quills.

“For you,” Harry said, placing the cat gently in Spock’s lap. “I thought you might like another cat to ‘care for.’”

Spock looked up at him. “How did you manage to procure him?”

“I’m the Chosen One. I have my ways.”

Raising an eyebrow at him, Spock then turned to the beautiful cat in his lap. He was licking his paws and purring. Spock gently petted him. “Does he come with a name?”

“King Tut. And I know, he was Egyptian. I saw a BBC special on it once. Scared me to death.”

Spock raised an eyebrow at him. “King Tut it is, then.” He lifted the cat and looked directly into its eyes. “Greetings, your majesty.”

Harry laughed beside him. “I’m glad you like him.”

“He is truly a beautiful specimen.” Spock was now stroking him. “Thank you, Harry.”

“I know we said we weren’t going to get each other Christmas presents, but I couldn’t help it once I saw the memory of I-Chaya. I told the house elves about King Tut and they’ll be sending up food for him to try this evening.”

“I am most grateful. I was wondering what I would feed him.”

Spock then kissed Harry and King Tut hopped off of Spock’s lap to curl up in an armchair.

It was not until March that Spock gained the courage to admit to himself that he wanted to sleep next to Harry. He knew it would be disrupting to Harry’s sleep schedules as Spock meditated until late in the evening and then once again at approximately five in the morning. 

They were sitting in a tree and Spock could just make out the figure of Miss Weasley sitting in the stands and looking in their general direction.

“Harry, I find myself wishing to sleep by your side,” Spock whispered, though his words were clear. “I recognize this as a weakness for my father’s people were not given to such expressions of affection. My own parents never shared the same bedchamber.”

A warm hand fell on his shoulder. “You are a child of two worlds,” Harry repeated the familiar words. “You want to sleep—not ‘have relations.’’”

“Yes, if you are amenable.”

Harry came to his room with a russack the following Saturday evening. Spock had cooked for them again. Neither of them ate very much and when Harry came out of the bathroom in overly large pajamas that looked like they had once belonged to an elephant, Spock immediately went to his small closet and removed his spare pair of sleep trousers and a Pride of Portree t-shirt. “They will be a little large, but they will be more appropriate.”

Looking a little sheepish, Harry returned to the bathroom. When he returned he looked a little more comfortable.

“I must meditate,” Spock informed him. “You are welcome to read or sleep. Whatever you prefer.”

Harry nodded once resolutely before turning to the bed with a Potions textbook under his arm. It was curious, as although Harry completed his classwork often in Spock’s presence he was not one for scholarly pursuits. Spock, however, merely noted the occurrence and went to sit on a yoga mat and lit a single candle upon which to focus.

3.2 hours later he came out of his trance and gently blew out the candle. Spock looked over at Harry and saw that he was still sitting up in bed, candles hovering above his head, reading the textbook.

Smoothly getting to his feet, Spock walked over to the bed and sat down upon it. “I do not know what is customary.”

Harry looked up from the book and put his wand in it to mark his place. “I—I think you just hold each other.”

“Hold. To what purpose?”

“Comfort?” Harry’s face tinged pink. “If you’d rather just sleep...”

“No. An embrace would be most pleasurable. Our hands, however, cannot touch.”

“They won’t, except by accident,” Harry promised. He put the book aside and lay down, facing Spock. “I think you should come here.”

Spock looked over at him and repeated the stance. With a tentative arm, he pulled Harry toward him where his romantic partner breathed out as he settled his head beneath Spock’s chin.

“I sleep lightly so do not hesitate to tell me if something is amiss.”

“A-All right,” Harry promised, pulling at Spock’s long-sleeved shirt to bring him even closer. “G’night, Spock.”

“Goodnight, Harry Potter.”

The lights dimmed at his silent command and without realizing it, Spock drifted into a pleasant sleep.

He dreamed again. He was once again in the deserts of Vulcan, though he could see the city of Shikahr in the distance. His mother was by his side. “I am glad that you are embracing your more—human attributes,” she murmured, her voice almost swallowed by the wind. “It is something I missed when I married your father.”

“Is it, indeed? I had thought you to be—happy.”

“I was happy. That does not mean that I did not miss Earth. Spock,” she paused, turning toward him. “You may miss Vulcan but embrace Earth. You are a child of two worlds. This boy, while young, will accept you for who you are.”

“How can you know that, Mother? We are not bonded. He does not know my past.”

“That boy is young but in love with you, and he does not love with half his heart. Unless you are forced apart or you shun him, he could be yours. A wizard’s life is longer than the average Terran’s. You would not spend decades mourning his loss.”

“How can you know such things?”

She smiled. “What is it that you learned? A dream is merely a subconscious representation of your own desires and fears. Take my counsel, Spock. I may have been lost to you on Vulcan, but I am always in your heart.”

“I will, Mother.” He bowed to her.

It was then that he awakened. Harry was in his arms, his eyes still moving beneath their eyelids in REM sleep, his hands fisted in Spock’s shirt. He looked so peaceful and—dare he think it—correct and in his rightful place in Spock’s embrace. Spock hadn’t the heart to wake him. 

Spock lay there for 2.1 hours longer before Harry slowly awoke and smiled at him.

“G’morning.”

“Greetings. Have you slept well?”

Harry nodded. “Better than I thought I would. I thought it would be strange after sleeping alone my whole life.”

“I concur to both sentiments,” Spock agreed. “Come, you must ready yourself for the day. I will have breakfast brought to us.”

Harry looked torn before he touched his nose to Spock’s. Spock was amazed by the action. Before he could get an answer from Harry, however, his romantic partner was rushing from the bed and toward the shower, a bundle of robes in his hands.

When he emerged not twenty minutes later, he was wearing his Quidditch robes. “Practice,” he announced. Spock, of course, already knew. “We had Apparition lessons yesterday.”

“Indeed. I saw from a window. It was most—comical.”

“I won’t tell Ron you said that. He’s rather touchy.” 

Spock drew Harry in for a kiss. His mouth tasted of spearmint and rainwater. Their food was waiting for them, but before either could begin, there was the sound of a knock on Spock’s door.

The two looked at each other and Harry carefully took his plate and went back into the bedroom. Spock disliked food being consumed where he slept, but he could not fault Harry’s logic in removing the evidence of his presence. A moment later he dashed out and grabbed his textbooks and bag.

Looking to see that Harry was fully hidden, Spock went to the door and found a rather stern looking Minerva McGonagall. “Don’t deny that he’s here,” she said by way of greeting as Spock invited her in. “I am not as easy to fool as Albus. I’ve seen what goes on during your flying lessons and how close the two of you have become—and now Harry Potter has gone missing!”

“Professor, you honor me with your presence. Can I perhaps offer you a cup of tea?”

“You may be new here, Professor Spock, but don’t give me cheek. You’re having an affair with Harry Potter and he simply cannot go missing from his dorm overnight.”

“Hypothetically speaking, according to the Charter he need only spend five out of seven nights there, Friday and Saturday nights being the exemption. I understand that last night was Saturday.”

“You know that rule is only for married students.”

“The rule is not explicit. While your concern for Mr. Potter’s wellbeing is exemplary, it is not necessary unless he proves to be missing for yet another night.”

“Is he here?” she stated calmly. “I won’t tell Albus, but for my own peace of mind, Professor Spock, I—“

Harry emerged from the bedroom. “Yes, I’m here, Professor McGonagall. Please leave Spock alone.”

She turned toward the bedroom and Harry’s appearance. “Mr. Potter, I am glad you have rejoined the land of the living. Perhaps you should go up to your dormitory while I have a discussion with Professor Spock.”

“We were just about to have breakfast.”

“I’ll have a house elf send up some eggs and bacon.”

Harry looked torn, glancing between his two professors, before finally deflating. “I’m sorry, Spock.”

“This is hardly the most difficult situation I have found myself in, Harry. Perhaps I’ll see you at Quidditch practice.”

“Perhaps you won’t,” McGonagall put in.

Harry looked defeated. “No,” he said, gaining back some of his strength. “I’m an active part of this relationship. I should stay here and hear this all, too.”

“Mr. Potter, I hardly think—“

“He has reached the age of consent. His point has some validity.”

Harry took his plate and placed it firmly on the table. He sat down and took a sip of tea before looking at McGonagall. “Hermione did all the research earlier this year, and I know I haven’t broken one single school rule—nor has Spock. If I were anyone but the Chosen One, this wouldn’t matter.”

“Mr. Potter, my concern for you is as your professor, not a devoted fan,” she said with clipped tones.

Spock poured her a cup of tea.

“You realize I cannot vouch for Professor Spock’s character, his affiliations—you do know that the high elves were dark in the last war.”

Spock had not known this. “My father’s people have been peaceful for over a millennium. I had not even heard of your Dark Lord until after Harry had vanquished him.”

Harry looked up at him, shocked. “Really?”

“I read about you in a book when you were approximately seven years of age. The tale was certainly most edifying.”

“Be that as it may,” Professor McGonagall cut in, “Albus will not be pleased.”

“No, he wants me to be with Hermione. She bosses me around and we share absolutely no interests. Spock and I can talk for hours about Quidditch and he respects me for who I am, not what I am. He even encourages me with my NEWT studies.”

“Has Harry’s overall performance suffered in any way since the beginning of this year?”

McGonagall looked at him testily. “No, it has only improved. It has been greatly remarked on by many professors.”

“I do not see how this relationship can be at all detrimental to Harry, then.”

“You are a half-elf over twice his age!”

“Such age distinguishers are meaningless to my father’s people. As to the fact that only my mother was human, I cannot deny such as it is a fact. I had not thought that you would be one to point out my difference.” He had not called her a bigot, but he had implied it. He wondered what she would say.

“Harry,” she began, turning toward him, “I’m going to have to play devil’s advocate. It would not be looked on favorably by the press if you had such a romantic attachment. This is a time of war where creatures rarely side with the light.”

“We’ll go public then,” Harry stated as he carved into his food. “Is that all right, Spock? I know you value your privacy—“ His words were left hanging.

Spock considered for several long moments. He was almost certain that Harry had not realized what he had just suggested. A public declaration of such magnitude would symbolize an impending bonding.

He looked at Harry and his sparkling green eyes. His mother’s words came back to him. Carefully he took a bite of a broiled potato.

“I fear that I must defer to the culture of my father’s people in this matter. If such a proclamation were to be uttered to the press, it would be tantamount to what is known as a human engagement. A bonding would follow a month afterward. As it is, I believe, not your intention to suggest such a bonding, I must decline.”

“Spock,” Harry breathed, holding his gaze. “I don’t know what to say.”

“There is nothing to say. Such an option is out of the question.”

“It is not out of the question,” Harry stated firmly. “At least not for me.”

“Mr. Potter, you cannot possibly suggest—“

Harry turned toward Professor McGonagall. “Yes, I can. My parents were just eighteen when they were married and I know that we would have to wait that long, but I never want to be without Spock.”

Spock felt gratified. “I believe I have much to contemplate.”

Harry’s face fell. “Of course,” he murmured.

“At least someone sees sense in this entire situation.” McGonagall took a sip of her tea. “You will disassociate yourselves from each other—“

“Forgive me, Professor,” Spock interrupted. “As Harry so correctly stated, I am unwilling to ‘give him up.’ I simply have not actively contemplated bonding since I was seven years of age when I rejected the bonding with a young woman of my father’s people. I will meditate on the matter.”

Harry looked at him happily. “I’ll contact Gringotts for the Potter engagement rings.”

“This is madness. You must know that I simply must inform the Headmaster if marriage is being contemplated.”

“If you feel you must,” Spock agreed.

McGonagall looked at the two of them tersely. Harry was now finished with his breakfast. “Off to Gryffindor Tower with you, Mr. Potter.”

At about this time Draco Malfoy’s visits to the seventh floor corridor became more frequent. The young witch no longer followed him and he seemed a little dejected at it, if Spock could read human behavior at all. One day, Spock followed him to a bit of wall that was completely empty except for a door.

He was certain that the door had not been present before, but still he opened it and entered a room full of piles of discarded objects that reached well past his head. Wandering the maze, he found a rather beautiful diadem. He looked at it and felt a negative energy emanating from it.

Spock did not find Draco Malfoy, but he took the diadem. Perhaps the Headmaster would know what to do with it.

The summons took less than three days. Diadem in hand, Spock ascended the moving stairs. He placed the object on the desk and looked directly into the Headmaster’s eyes. “I believe this object may be of some importance,” he stated. “It emanates the same distinct feeling as Mr. Potter’s scar.”

Dumbledore picked up the object with wonder and then put it in a drawer. “Thank you, my boy. This will prove important to the Order.”

“The Order?”

“The Order of the Phoenix is an organization dedicated to fighting Voldemort.” He waited, perhaps to see if Spock would flinch, which he did not. “If you are to marry Mr. Potter, then you need to know of such things.”

“You are not going to protest.” Spock steepled his fingers once again.

“No, my boy. I know a futile situation when I see one. When confronted, Mr. Potter proposed marriage. I had realized you had become a close companion to the boy, but I had to realized to what an extent.”

“I have not agreed.”

“No, but you will. At some point you will realize that his fight against Voldemort could mean his death and you will not wish to be parted from him in the few tender months or years that you may have together.” The man spoke as if from experience, but Spock did not pry. It was not his place. “I wish to induct you into the Order of the Phoenix.”

“There is little I can help with. I am simply the Muggle Studies professor.”

“True, but you have Elven connections.”

“I have no connections to my father’s people. I have been cast out.”

“A shame, truly. Still I have noticed you have a tactical mind. It might be of some use.”

Spock paused. “I admit that I am uncomfortable with this situation. I am not Harry Potter’s bonded mate and have no view on the war at hand. While I greatly sympathize with Harry’s suffering and do not wish to see it repeated, I have not declared myself for either side of this particular conflict.”

Dumbledore looked at him through his half-moon spectacles. “Be that as it may, talk to young Harry first before making your decision.”

“I do not see how a decision needs to be made, but I will speak with him on the matter.”

It was unusual, but Harry and Spock met in the kitchens later that night. The tables were all of miniature proportions, but Spock folded himself into a chair and watched the house elves at their work. A vegetable salad, a personal preference, had been set in front of him, and as soon as Harry entered there was a renewed flurry of activity.

Harry kissed Spock in greeting and held on a little too long, but Spock did not mind. He found Harry’s rather chaotic presence soothing to his katra. 

“Marry me,” Harry asked holding out a ring of burnt bronze with runes in it. It was a remarkable piece of craftsmanship and Spock could do little but appreciate it.

“I will never marry. I may bond, but I will not marry.”

“Explain to me the difference then,” Harry begged as sausage and mash were set in front of him. 

“We—my father’s people—meld our minds to that of another. We become t’hyla, brother, friend, lover in all things. A human marriage is weak in comparison.”

“Then we can do both,” Harry argued. “A human marriage for my friends and the Ministry to make it official and a bonding between ourselves.”

Spock looked at him. “Are you truly certain you wish to be bonded to me? I am one of many years to your human standards, I have seen things that I will never be able to describe. I have lost so much. You will be bound forever to one who is in mourning for a time and place which is gone.”

“It wouldn’t matter if you loved me. I love you.” He blushed. “I know we’ve never said it, but it’s true. I love you, Spock. I want to go to sleep in your arms every night, and wake up like that every morning. I want—to hold your hand. Is that wrong?”

“It is not wrong. It may be misguided—“

“We are not a mistake. Never a mistake,” Harry breathed. He held out the ring again. “Please. Spock.”

Spock stared at Harry for a long time before stretching out his hand. This boy had become dear to him and he thought he felt the stirrings of an emotion deep within him that may be more than simple affection. He wanted this young man by his side, wherever it may lead and he hoped that he would not prove a disappointment as Harry aged. “I am not one for platitudes or speeches,” he said, accepting the ring. Carefully, he put it on his fourth finger where it resized. Magic was certainly intriguing. “The only testament of my affection that you will have is the oz’cheta.” He proffered two fingers. “It is not dissimilar to a human kiss.”

Harry stared at him for a long moment before offering his index and middle finger. The fingers touched briefly and Harry, possibly feeling the warmth of Spock’s affection through the link, smiled.

“Saturday is a Hogsmeade weekend. We can announce it then.”

Spock inclined his head. “If you so choose.”

They walked into the hamlet together, silent, but Spock was aware of the stares on them. He was, as always, wearing his black turtleneck and trousers with his blue over-robe. Harry was in trainers and a sweater.

The two of them entered the Three Broomsticks and Harry pointed to a witch with an acid green quill. “Rita Skeeter,” he murmured. “She may owe me a favor.”

Spock did not like the woman as the interview progressed but kept his face a stoic plane of indifference. She asked him several times about his heritage and whether Harry was making a public declaration concerning Creature Rights in his engagement.

When the interview was finally over, Spock allowed himself to be enveloped in a conversation with Weasley and Granger. Harry had apparently told them the night before of their engagement and was beaming up at him while Spock fielded questions from Harry’s two friends.

“I thought you did not believe in student-teacher romances,” Miss Granger instantly stated.

“I never objected to them in principle, if you may recall, Miss Granger.”

She huffed. “Are you certain you are not using Harry for his fame?”

“I have no desire for fame. It would not be logical.”

“Logic,” she scoffed. “What has logic to do with your relationship to Harry?”

He stared at her. “What was the logic of your persistence in pursuing me, Miss Granger?”

She was quiet after that.

Spock had no classes on Wednesday and often spent his day grading assignments. He also had unofficial office hours for any of his students, although few students took advantage of them. He was, therefore, surprised when Miss Weasley knocked on his door.

“Come in,” he said, standing from his desk and offering her a chair. There was a table next to it so that homework and books could be laid out for discussion. “How may I be of assistance?”

She came into the room hesitantly and looked at Spock directly in the eye. “I have a question, but it’s not covered by the text.”

“I will help in any way that I may.”

Miss Weasley took a hesitant seat. Now, she was avoiding all eye contact. “In the wizarding world, it is only second sons that may marry other men. Harry is not a second son. Instead he is the only Potter left.” She glanced over at Spock. “I’ve been trying to understand your relationship since the article came out in The Prophet, and I’m—confused. What’s the situation like in the Muggle world?”

“An official civil union is not legal, Miss Weasley, but such pairings are not uncommon and are often accepted. This is especially true in an academic or artistic setting.”

“So the wizarding world is giving him legitimacy. He doesn’t see it like the end of the line.”

Spock hesitated. “In the Muggle world there are sometimes children from previous relationships or from adoption. There are also medical procedures in which a birth mother would offer to carry the child of a homosexual through in vitro fertilization. There is often a commercial transaction along with such arrangements.”

Her head whipped up. “Muggles can do that?”

“Indeed.”

She nodded her head. “Perhaps that’s what he’ll do,” she murmured. She nodded. “I’ll offer, of course.”

“I would imagine that Mr. Potter is too young. There is still a war. I might also remind you that you are still a student at Hogwarts and not adequately prepared for pregnancy.”

“It might be his only chance before the War escalates.”

“Be that as it may, it is still premature.”

She bit her lip. “Do elves have same-sex relationships?”

“That is not a question on Muggles, Miss Weasley. This conversation has already been suspect given my relationship to Mr. Potter. I will not give you privileged information on my father’s people.”

She nodded. “Thank you, Professor Spock. Harry’s often at the Weasleys over the summer, so perhaps we’ll see you there.”

Dumbledore came a few hours later. “If you don’t mind not dining in the Great Hall, this is perhaps a good time to introduce you to the Order.”

“I view such an action as premature.”

“Nonsense. You wear the Potter betrothal ring.”

Spock shuffled his papers. “If it is a necessity.”

“It is, my boy. It is.”

“I cannot enter the floo.” As a non-magical being he could not operate it. It was astounding that he could even see the castle.

Dumbledore’s eyebrows rose. “We shall Apparate then.”

Spock followed Dumbledore out onto the grounds and down toward Hogsmeade. It was a beautiful if cold evening. His breath came out in huffs. He had the body temperature close to a Vulcan’s and was more suited to Vulcan deserts than cold Scottish winters.

They Apparated onto a dark deserted street. Dumbledore leaned in and whispered, “The Headquarters to the Order of Phoenix are at Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place.” He then gestured to two buildings in front of them. After a moment another, decrepit looking house emerged from between the two of them. Spock blinked.

The inside of the house was in disrepair. It was also very dark. 

“Halfbreed!” a portrait of a woman screamed at him. 

Spock stared imperiously back at her.

“Harry inherited the house from his godfather,” Dumbledore was now explaining as they descended a staircase. “He allows the Order to use it.”

“That is indeed generous of him.” Spock looked around once more. He would certainly refuse to live there if it were Harry’s wishes. There were always his quarters at Hogwarts. They were more than adequate for two.

The kitchen was warm and there was a dumpy red haired woman bustling about with plates levitating behind her. Spock took in the room. There was a large wooden table that dominated it and a fireplace that might second as the floo connection.

A mousy haired woman and a thin man with a tired face were sitting at the table.

“Ah,” the man said, standing instantly and offering his hand. “This must be the famous Professor Spock. I’m Remus Lupin, former Defense Against the Dark Arts professor.”

Spock looked at his hand. “You must forgive me, but my father’s people do not shake hands. It is considered quite rude.” Spock, on occasion, wished for the xenobiology courses that were taught at the Academy. Few, if any, students offered him their hands because of such education of different species and their customs.

The man’s face fell. “Of course. I’m sorry.” He sat back down.

“You were not to know. It is a trait singular to my father’s race.” Lupin looked a little less disquieted.

The witch looked up at him. “Wotcher. I’m Tonks.”

“Greetings, Professor Lupin. Greetings, Tonks.” Spock inclined his head slightly. “It is an honor to make your acquaintance.”

The bustling witch looked around. “I’m Molly Weasley. I believe you teach my daughter Ginny.”

“I do. She shows some aptitude for the subject matter.”

“Her father works in the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts office,” Molly Weasley was now saying. “She comes by it honestly.”

Dumbledore then gestured to a chair. “Come, professor. Sit. Make yourself at home.”

Spock doubted that he could make himself at home, but he did sit across from Lupin. Plates were being placed in front of everyone and Spock sighed when he saw they were eating blood pudding. He was always strictly a vegetarian when on Earth.

Shortly after the meal began, Professor Snape floo’d into the room. “Ah, yes. Professor Spock,” he greeted. “Your pet Gryffindor was looking for you at dinner.”

“If you are referring to Miss Granger then I have nothing to say on the matter.”

Lupin looked at him sharply. “Hermione Granger?”

“She is rather fond of Professor Spock,” Dumbledore explained. “She may have pursued him at the beginning of the year.”

“She always seemed so intelligent. I wouldn’t have expected her to go after a teacher,” Mrs. Weasley put in. “It’s so unlike her.”

“Are you suggesting that my fiancé is unintelligent? I would never pursue a student. It would be a breach of trust.”

“Are we to understand that Potter pursued you?” Snape asked nastily. “Didn’t know he had it in him.”

Spock inclined his head. “I could not possibly comment.”

“You always were considered exotic by the students. I gave out more than one detention to young witches who were passing notes about you during class.”

“I only punish for magical note passing,” Spock commented. “I prefer that my students do it the Muggle way as it is Muggle Studies.”

Snape looked down his nose. “How—interesting.”

Spock just stared back at him.

The Gryffindor match was coming up and Spock went to all of the practices. Harry was drilling his team with force and proficiency, especially the new keeper, Cormac McLaggen.

Still, Spock did not trust McLaggen. There was something about his grin that reminded him of James Tiberius Kirk—and not in a good way. His fears, if indeed Spock would admit that he still had fears, proved to be prophetic when McLaggen sent a bludger straight at Harry’s head and Harry ended up in the Hospital Wing with a cracked skull.

The entire team swarmed around him when Spock entered the Hospital Wing, his hands clasped behind his back. His robes swished around his legs as he walked imperiously forward. The crowd parted for him, someone whispering that he looked ‘hot’ when he was angry.

Spock looked down at Harry intently. 

Madam Pomfrey was flitting around them, casting what might have been diagnostic spells.

“Well?” he finally asked when she was finished.

“I don’t think,” she stammered. “You’re not the next of kin—“

“Magic hating Muggles are,” Spock stated. “It is only logical that you should tell me as we are promised to each other in the ways of both his father’s people and my father’s people.”

Dumbledore was now pushing forward. “Human engagements do not work that way, Professor Spock.”

“Am I not wearing a ring of the House of Potter?” He brandished the ring for the entire crowd to see. “I would also ask you to respect the traditions of my father’s people as Mr. Potter has done when he agreed to bond with me under the rites of Surak.”

“The rites of who, dear boy?” Dumbledore looked at him in childlike innocence, but Spock was not so easily won over.

“A great teacher. My father’s society is based entirely on his teachings. Now, if you have finished your interrogation, I wish to know the prognosis of my fiancé.”

Madam Pomfrey looked between Dumbledore and Spock, uncertain what to do. Dumbledore raised his wand and partitions formed around the three of them and the bed. The din of the crowd also disappeared, silence falling around them.

“I am afraid you have no legal right, Professor Spock.”

“I fear that you are misinformed. Under Article Seven of Section T of the Near Human Beings Rights Act, my culture is to be respected and nurtured by wizard kind. You are failing to do just this by denying me my fiancé’s prognosis.”

Dumbledore pursed his lips. He turned to Madam Pomfrey. “Well, Madam Pomfrey?”

She looked quickly between the two of them before taking a deep breath. “I’m afraid that Mr. Potter has a fractured skull. I have given him some SkeleGro to repair the damage and after a good night’s sleep he should be completely healed.”

“I request that he be moved to my quarters,” Spock stated. “I can watch over him and if all medical care has already been given to him, then I see no impediment. Also, Madam Pomfrey is only a floo call away.”

“Professor Spock, you cannot operate the floo,” Dumbledore reminded him.

“In that I must disagree. I cannot travel by floo, but I can call someone with it as long as I do not insert my head into the fireplace.”

“I fear that rather negates the usage of a floo call,” Madam Pomfrey whispered.

Spock looked at her before turning to Professor Dumbledore. 

“I’m afraid I’ll have to insist that he stay in the Hospital Wing until he is better,” Pomfrey managed.

“Then I shall remain with him,” Spock decided.

Spock took up residence in a chair beside Harry’s bed. He realized that it was customary to hold the injured party’s hand, but he could not. His hands remained in his lap. Instead he could only offer silent vigil.

Students filtered in bringing candy and cards, though Spock noticed that McLaggen was noticeably absent. 

Miss Granger was naturally among them. Mr. and Miss Weasley accompanied her, but they were primarily silent.

Miss Granger looked at him. “Harry said that you would be ‘bonding’ in the elven way.”

Spock inclined his head in acknowledgement. “That would not be an inaccurate assessment.”

“What does that entail?” She seemed genuinely curious and Miss Weasley, who had been fiddling with the cards on Harry’s bedside table, looked over at him.

“It is an ancient rite that few outsiders are privileged to witness.”

“So, we would not be invited, you’re saying.” Miss Granger sat in a spare chair and crossed her ankles. Her hands were placed on her knees.

“That is entirely up to Mr. Potter,” Spock conceded. “However, there would be little if nothing to witness.” To be entirely honest, Spock was uncertain if they could bond. Not only was Harry fully human as Spock’s mother had been, but Spock was also half-human himself. He might not have the necessary mental capacity, despite his engineered genetics, to support a bond with someone other than a Vulcan. 

There was also the matter of the fact that there was no one to bond them. Spock believed, if somewhat naïvely, that he could perform the bond himself without the aide of the matron of his clan, but such feats of mental dexterity were rarely if ever tested. Spock may have to content himself with a human marriage.

He had grappled with the idea—if he could mate with another in such a breakable bond as a human marriage or not. He had become aware that at least among pureblooded wizards divorce was unheard of, but it was not entirely obsolete. Harry, also, was not a pureblood, had been raised by Muggles in fact, and was very young for a human.

“I think we should go to this bonding thing,” Mr. Weasley was now saying. “It’s only right. He’s family, after all.”

“As I said, that is a matter for Mr. Potter to decide.”

“After it is discussed, you mean,” Miss Granger pointed out perceptively. “It is an aspect of your culture. You would not want it—sullied—by mere mortals.”

Spock turned his rather human eyes on her and looked into her steady gaze. “If it were entirely up to me, Miss Granger, I would bring Mr. Potter to my home. I would insist that the bonding be blessed and performed by the matriarch of my clan. Such an honor has only been granted once to a human by my father’s people. However, I would demand that it be granted again. Only ambassadors of your species would be able to follow us and, as I am a prince, I would have say over whether or not they could view the bonding. Does that quite satisfy your prurient curiosity?”

Miss Granger just stared at him.

Miss Weasley, however, was the one to speak. “You are a prince? Why are you here?”

“That is a question I often ask myself, Miss Weasley,” he replied before turning back to Harry, willing him to wake up.

He had thought the matter closed. However, it was not.

“What about the wedding?”

Spock turned to look at Mr. Weasley. “I assume that it will take place this summer. Beyond that I could not say.”

“You haven’t discussed this. At all.” Miss Granger was now looking at him accusingly.

“While I understand Terran weddings are often large and lavish affairs, I have perceived that Mr. Potter dislikes the usual ‘pomp and circumstance,’ as you humans are like to say. But you are correct, no plans have been made.”

“Well, we’d love to host it,” Mr. Weasley put in. “We could keep it simple, just the family. I’m sure Bill is already home from Egypt and Charlie will come back from Romania. Then you could spend your honeymoon somewhere nice.” He pinked. “Er—or at Grimmauld Place. Wherever.”

“What about Bill’s wedding to Phlegm? Mum has to help plan that,” Miss Weasley put in.

“As I said,” Spock put in, “it has yet to be discussed.”

Spock waited throughout the night. He deferred his nightly meditation for another time, instead keeping vigil.

When Harry finally opened his eyes, Spock’s lips quirked. “Greetings,” he murmured.

Harry smiled and lifted his hand to Spock’s face. “Hey, yourself.”

As soon as Harry was released, Spock brought him to his quarters as it was a Sunday and he would not be missed. Miss Granger had brought his homework to the Hospital Wing and Spock made Harry comfortable on the sofa with all his notes around him.

“Spock,” Harry said over a dinner of fruit salad. “I’ve been thinking.”

“May I inquire as to the topic?”

“I—“ Harry blushed. “Well, I’m sixteen. And, and you said that you were almost bonded at seven.”

“That is correct.”

“Well, I want to be bonded now. I don’t want to wait until we have a wedding. I don’t care if we have one. The bonding will be recognized by wizards—I looked it up.”

“Harry, I would not deprive you of a simple human rite of passage. To me it may mean nothing, but I know that is not the case for you.”

“I know, and I love you for it. But I still want to bond now. Please, Spock.”

Spock turned to his food, in thought. “What brought about this sudden change in thinking?”

“Madam Pomfrey didn’t give me Dreamless Sleep. I was in and out of being awake all of yesterday and I, well, heard—“

“Think nothing of it.”

“They wouldn’t let you see me! Spock, I can’t, I won’t let this go. I’m sixteen. I’m old enough to fight Voldemort. I’m certainly old enough to be bonded if seven year old elves are.”

“I am not an elf,” Spock stated calmly.

Harry dropped his spoon. “I—what?”

“It is a common misconception, but I am not an elf.”

“What are you then?”

Spock paused. “My mother was a human. My father was a Vulcan.”

“—and that’s not an elf.”

“No. I have read, in a tome, of a contraption called a time turner. Are you aware of these miniature devices?”

“Yes, of course,” Harry said, picking up his spoon. “Hermione had one third year. And I might have smashed a bunch of them in the Department of Mysteries.”

Spock looked at him firmly. “There are other ways to travel through time. Although rare, it is possible through science—or accidents of science. I was present on a vessel that committed such a feat.”

“You—what?” Harry looked stupefied. His eyes were enlarged as if he could not quite comprehend what was being said.

“I have overwhelmed you. That was not my intention.”

Spock’s hand was on the table, perhaps to steady him during this difficult conversation, and he moved to place it again in his lap. However, Harry grabbed it. Looking down, Spock then glanced at Harry.

“Yes, yes, I know. But just—be with me. Make me understand.”

He looked down at their touching hands once more and then back up to Harry. “Please, Harry. I am here. Just—do not—“ He was gasping now, pleasure rolling through him, and Harry pulled back as if struck.

Carefully Spock got his breathing back under control, and reached out with two fingers. “I am here, t’hyla.”

Warily, Harry mirrored the gesture. 

“You time traveled.”

“Yes. Approximately two-hundred eighty-four earth years.”

Silence reigned over the table. Then, quietly, Harry whispered, “earth years.”

“Yes. My mother was Terran—human. My father was from a species known as Vulcans. It is why I can never return home. Interstellar travel has not yet been discovered.”

“You are a child of two worlds,” Harry echoed. “Does anyone else know?”

“You are the first. I trust you, Harry. You are to be my bonded.”

Harry laughed brokenly. “Am I some poor sort of a substitute? Since you can’t have one of your ‘father’s people’?”

“I have never favored Vulcans. While I follow logic and the teachings of Surak, I have always been viewed as emotional and human. I have always gravitated toward humans and their emotions.”

“I—see.”

Harry got up from the table and started to gather his books and parchments. “I really should go. I have classes tomorrow.”

Spock stood. “Please do not leave in anger, Harry.”

He turned to Spock. “I’m not angry. I’m just—it’s too much.”

“How is a feat of science different than the world of magic?” Spock questioned.

“I just—I just can’t right now. I need to be alone.” He pushed past Spock. At the door, he paused. “Thank you for trusting me, Spock,” he whispered before he was out the door.

Spock did not see Harry, except for glimpses in the Great Hall, for three weeks. He caught Miss Granger looking at him in confusion, and assumed that Harry had said they had had a disagreement. At least, that was the rumor he had heard with his enhanced hearing. Still, he did not take off the Potter betrothal ring. He would not unless Harry requested it of him.

It was on a Wednesday that Harry knocked hesitantly on the door of his study. “May I come in?” He looked confused and a little frightened.

“You need never ask,” Spock said, standing from his desk.

Coming in, Harry closed the door and put down his satchel. He closed his eyes and put up his hands in what Spock recognized was a visualizing technique. Harry breathed out roughly through his nose. “Okay, so you’re a spaceman.”

“I have been called worse,” Spock confessed.

Harry was momentarily put off track. “Really?”

“Yes. A doctor once called me a ‘green-blooded hobgoblin.’ Little did I know that such a creature might actually exist.”

“Right. Yes. I just—You’re here. I need to know, that if a Vulcan ship comes swooping down from the sky, that you’ll either stay here with me or take me with you. That’s the only way this is going to work. I accepted the fact that if the elves reaccepted you that we might go live with them—and I guess the same applies with aliens from outer space. I just have to know that you won’t leave me, Spock.”

Walking briskly across the room, Spock clutched Harry tightly to him, Harry’s head resting against his chest. “I would never leave you, t’hyla. You will be my bonded mate and I will not accept a separation, even for a human divorce.”

He heard a smile in Harry’s voice. “That’s all I needed to know.” Harry reached up and grasped Spock’s face in his hands. “You’re my ‘green-blooded hobgoblin.’”

“In that, it appears, we are in agreement.”

Then Harry kissed him, roughly and passionately, hands flying into Spock’s perfectly coiffed hair and Spock could not find it within himself to care. Pulling away finally, Harry murmured, “Let’s get hitched.”

Dumbledore was invited as witness. His withered hand was dull against his magenta robes as Spock and Harry sat across from each other in his office.

“I must counsel against this, Harry,” Dumbledore said sternly. “Although you may be of age in the elven courts, you are not yet in the eyes of human law.”

“Elven law overrules human law in this case, Professor. And I’m old enough to know what I want.”

“If that be the case, then I bear witness.” He waved his wand in an intricate pattern, perhaps to make the bonding recognized by the Ministry for Magic.

Carefully, Spock placed his fingers on Harry’s face in the familiar meld form. “Now, reach for my mind as I reach for yours,” he instructed. “My mind to your mind…”

Your thoughts to my thoughts.

Spock’s mind surged forward, that long forgotten thread that was to be bonded to T’Pring rushing to the forefront as it sought out a similar thread in Harry’s thoughts. He could hear Harry, singing, answering, and he caressed his mental form, willing Harry to know just how much he loved him. For it was love. Surely, it must be. Then he was looking, searching, until there, in the mind’s core, he found a dormant thread, swirled around itself. Reaching out hesitantly, Spock’s mind caressed it, willing it to unfurl. 

At first the thread did not swirl, then it began to shiver to life. Carefully, carefully, it began to unstring itself until a tip was visible and it reached forward, uncoiling, uncoiling. Spock reached forward, seeking out the head of that piece of string, and then they were curling around each other, thread against thread, until the two were so merged that you could not tell one from another.

Spock’s mind retreated from Harry’s, but the thread remained in tact, moving backward with him but forever connected until finally, Spock’s eyes opened to meet familiar green.

“That was—magical,” Harry whispered as Spock removed his fingers. “I can feel you.”

“As I do you, t’hyla.”

Dumbledore leaned forward, causing Harry and Spock to look away from one another. “Is that an elven word? I don’t think I know it.”

“It is a word of my father’s people,” Spock agreed. “It is not known to humans, except for my mother and Harry.”

“Fascinating, my boy. Fascinating.”

Harry moved out of the Gryffindor dormitories that afternoon. Spock was allowed admittance and was startled by how red everything was. Students stopped and openly gaped at him, but he did not mind. Instead, he followed Harry up the winding staircase to the dormitory at the top of a tower where there were five four-post beds.

“This one’s mine,” Harry said as he gestured sheepishly toward one that was rather untidy. There were books and socks everywhere as well as clothes hanging off of his study chair. 

Spock raised an eyebrow. “I see that I must accustom myself to a certain amount of disorder.”

“Would you?” Harry asked hopefully. “It’s just—before Hogwarts—I never had space or really anything to put in the space and—“

“You need say no more, t’hyla,” Spock said gently, stepping forward. “Now, let us create some order for your move.”

That night they sat on Spock’s bed—their bed—and simply stared at one another. Neither said a word, both afraid to break the silence.

Finally, Harry asked, “I guess we should have talked about this, but how do Vulcans—er—have sex?”

Spock’s ears tinged green. “We mate in much the same way humans do. Our sex organs are slightly different, but it is not too noticeable. The one true difference is that a full-blooded Vulcan male only mates once every seven years during pon farr—our mating cycle.”

“Pon farr,” Harry repeated. “Do you pon farr?”

“I do not.” Spock paused. “I have never been bonded so I have never mated.”

“Oh, good.” Harry breathed out a puff of air. “I’m a virgin, too.”

“Then we shall learn together.” Spock turned to his nightstand and pulled out a book and what humans called hand cream. “I acquired this textbook from a biology class over a decade ago and have found it to be most informative.” He handed it to Harry who flipped through it, pausing at certain pages, and turning the book over at different angles to better see certain diagrams. 

“To hell with this,” Harry said, chucking the book onto the floor. “Anything I shouldn’t do?”

“It is considered rude to touch a Vulcan’s neck.”

“Neck. Really?” He reached forward and ran a finger lightly up the side of it, kissing the corner of Spock’s mouth. “Was that rude?”

“That was most—pleasurable.”

Harry grinned wickedly. “Does this mean I get to touch your hands?”

“Undoubtedly, t’hyla.”

“Brilliant.”

Then two Quidditch calloused hands were on his, moving tentatively, fingers mingling with fingers, and Spock shuddered again. Wanting to give his mate as much pleasure as he felt, Spock surged into a kiss and teased Harry’s tongue into his own mouth.

He moved one hand away and used it to cup Harry’s face and pulled back to stare into Harry’s eyes. “You no longer have a need for these, I believe,” Spock murmured in a husky voice as he plucked Harry’s glasses from his face. He set them carefully on the bedside table before he was kissing Harry again, running a hand through his messy black fringe.

Carefully he pushed Harry back onto the sheets and by the light of the moon that was shining in through a window made love to his bonded mate.

Harry moaned, arching his back into Spock. “I love you,” he confessed. “I love your pig-head stubbornness, and the way you talk, and your ears.”

“Why are Terrans always so fascinated by my ears?”

“They’re pointy,” Harry explained, kissing Spock’s nose. “They’re beautiful and so different from plain, boring human ears.”

“On Vulcan they are considered ‘plain’ and ‘boring.’” He ran a hand up Harry’s sleep shirt and tugged at the hem.

Harry obliged by flinging it off, revealing the smooth, muscled chest of a seeker.

Spock couldn’t help but pause. He had never seen a Terran in a state of undress before, not really. Carefully, he reached out and ran a hand across the ribcage. “It still fascinates me how Terrans have red blood.” Everywhere he touched turned a light shade of pink and warmed to his touch.

“Do you like what you see?” The human vulnerability showed on Harry’s face, and he once again wondered at the illogic of Terrans. He leaned down and kissed Harry, uncertain what to say in response to his query. “I love you,” Harry murmured into their kiss, rising a little so that he was resting on his elbows. “I love you so much, you green-blooded hobgoblin.”

Spock couldn’t help but blush green at the turn of phrase and Harry laughed. 

“You really do have green blood.”

“A mere biological difference,” Spock assured. “We can still copulate despite it.”

Harry’s head fell back on the bed as he laughed. “Copulate. Spock, it’s called making love when two people love each other.”

“I find the imprecise nature of such language—“

Harry just shushed him with another kiss that made Spock feel wicked. He reached out with two fingers as he pulled away and Harry smiled and returned the gesture. 

Spock was overwhelmed. He felt such love and devotion and unadulterated lust coming from the bond.

“Shall I disrobe?” he asked, once he had collected himself. Spock was only wearing a pair of sleep trousers that he also used for meditation.

Harry cocked his head to the side. “You may disrobe,” he said with a hint of laughter. His laughter, however, soon died down when he saw Spock in the nude. “Spock, where’s your—your cock?”

Ignoring the uncultivated expression, Spock asked instead, “Are you telling me that you wish to see it?”

“Er,” Harry said, clearly taking in the slight bulge between Spock’s legs. “Yeah.”

“You wish then for copulation to proceed and, more specifically, that I should penetrate you at this time.”

Harry’s jaw dropped. “Er-I guess foreplay can be over. How do you want me?” He was now tugging out of his own sleep pants. He was hard and erect and it was all so red that it made Spock stare.

“On your back,” Spock said in a strangled tone. “I wish to look into your eyes.”

Carefully Spock moved forward on his hands and viewed Harry from that angle. The boy’s knees were up in the air, his feet firmly planted on the bed, and Harry was looking anywhere but at Spock.

“T’hyla, have my words or actions offended you?”

“No, I just, kiss me, Spock.” He did better than that, he intertwined his hand with Harry’s, gasping, and then drew away to prepare his bonded. He took the cream and with one finger, entered his mate. Harry gasped and he immediately stopped. “No, go on,” Harry urged, “I want this.”

So, Spock continued, with two fingers and then three. As a Vulcan’s phallus was thinner and longer than a Terran’s, he thought he had amply provided for his mate. With concentration, Spock unsheathed his penis and positioned it at Harry’s entrance.

“Are you willing?” he asked in the typical Vulcan tradition of not wanting to inconvenience one’s mate, even during one’s time.

Harry nodded and then ran a hand down Spock’s neck.

Spock shivered.

Then he entered slowly and watched as Harry threw his head back at the sensation and Spock paid careful attention to Harry’s own pleasure, all the while kissing his mewls and gasps from his mouth, their hands joined once again.

Afterward, Harry lay wrapped in Spock’s embrace, playing with one of his hands. The bond between them was humming in contentment.

“I can feel you,” Harry said in awe. “Inside my head, through our hands. No wonder you wanted to bond instead of just marry. This is incredible! Just looking at you, I couldn’t even tell if you liked it or not, but through the bond I can feel your happiness.”

“It gratifies me that you find the union of our minds pleasurable,” Spock murmured against Harry’s rounded ear. “It was, I confess, a desirable outcome to our romantic association.”

Harry stifled a laugh. “Only you, Spock. Only you.”

**THE END**


End file.
